


the sweetness of your cruelty

by ultraviolence



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancing, Dear god what have I done, Drinking, Enemies, Fluff and Crack, I'm so sorry, Kissing, M/M, Smoking, crackfic, this is really crack and not to be taken seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 13:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10720674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultraviolence/pseuds/ultraviolence
Summary: “Director Krennic,” the all-too familiar and terror-inducing voice said, the voice that is the bane of Krennic’s existence, and one that had starred in his private nightmares one too many times. “I would never thought that drinking on a Tuesday night is something you would do.”//Krennic goes for drinks to escape stress. The stress said hi to him at the bar. Modern AU.





	the sweetness of your cruelty

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Сладкий вкус жестокости](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12349941) by [Riddle_TM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riddle_TM/pseuds/Riddle_TM)



> The idea for this originated from a convo in The Imperials Discord chat that basically goes: Krennic owned a private bar onboard DS-1, and one day Tarkin shows up there just to rile him up. And they accidentally danced together to the tune of their favourite song (bonus point: Tarkin led the Director to the dance floor by his skinny tie). This is my modern AU interpretation (very cracky) of it, unabashedly also inspired by [this fanart](http://advancedweaponry.co.vu/post/158299530319/shahs1221-death-star-imperials-modern-au-a). Brief shoutout to **saltandlimes** since this is partially her achievement (I mean prompt, sort of, coughs). I'm sorry in advance for this monstrosity I've created. Enjoy!

One of these days, one of these nights, one of these starless, pollution-laden dark sky evenings, Orson Krennic would stop sneaking off to a bar on a weekday night, but that particular night is a long, long way away. If such a night would ever come around, at all.

According to his colleagues: never. Close friends: perhaps, but that’d require him to stop drinking altogether, and that is something as uncertain as the existence of life on other planets. One very close friend, now drifting apart: Orson is very obsessive. It’d mean giving up on all his obsessions, altogether, every single one of them. And that is unlikely to happen.

One of such obsessions was his job. There are warnings about how you shouldn’t marry your job or made it the focal point of the masterpiece-in-progress that is your life, but clearly Krennic didn’t get the memo. Or even if he did, he’d probably set it on fire with the lighter that he always carried on the inside pocket of his suit jacket at all times.

Needless to say, tonight was one of those nights.

He shows up at exactly 9:00 pm CST (Coruscant Standard Time) outside the bar two blocks from his office—a prestigious, high-end architecture firm—skirting around the edges of the city, lean and wolflike, cigarette hanging from his mouth. He was still wearing the suit that he’d worn for work, but his tie had been conspicuously loosened and the suit jacket hangs open, showing a slightly crumpled white shirt. His gait is fast and businesslike, long strides, and he reached the door soon enough, pushing it open impatiently.

The inside of the bar smelled of smoke and the sound of conversations, both hushed and loud, immediately hitting him like a wave, and he studied the assembled crowd before him in one quick gaze, before making his way to an unoccupied seat on one end of the bar. His usual spot. The bartender noticed him and gave a subtle nod while Krennic took his seat.

He’d started to make eye contact with the woman two seats away from him (after ordering whiskey and affecting indifference to the rest with the practiced air of a regular)—a middle-aged blonde maybe a decade or so younger than him, with a noticeable figure, skirt hiked up her thighs in an all-too familiar way—and started to smile at her, when a familiar drawl interrupted his brief flirtation. 

“Director Krennic,” the all-too familiar and terror-inducing voice said, the voice that is the bane of Krennic’s existence, and one that had starred in his private nightmares one too many times. “I would _never_ thought that drinking on a Tuesday night is something _you_ would do.”

The sarcasm inherent in that statement barely escaped Krennic’s attention. He swallowed the intense, visceral hatred that is the side effect from interacting with one Wilhuff Tarkin, who seemed to exist for no other reason than to make his life a living hell this side of Coruscant, and forced a smile. It came out as a sneer. 

“Governor Tarkin,” he acknowledged the other, whose immaculate suit (even more expensive than the one Krennic was currently wearing) looked as if it hadn’t seen a day of hard work or intense meetings and furious lobbyings, noticing that the woman he’d tried to flirt with was slowly edging away. He swallowed his rising annoyance, as well. “I would never thought that it is something _you_ would do, either.”

“It is not, but certain times called for certain measures. And I am encountering certain _difficulties_ in managing a certain _subordinate_ at work.” He responded, barely flinching, cold veneer intact. Krennic hated him even more for that, and, if it’s humanly possible, yet even more so when the governor sat down next to him with his seemingly effortless grace. He signalled for the bartender, who immediately approached them.

There was a lot to be said about Wilhuff Tarkin. The older man was reputed to be the current Prime Minister’s close friend and trusted ally, and he had a dozen or so of powerful people in the world at his bidding. He was governor of his hometown back in his birth country for two reputedly wildly successful terms, and the title governor stuck to him like the tailored satin gloves he’d worn when he smokes. A cherished scion from a powerful family, he owned at least more than half of the company’s shares, and that effectively makes him Krennic’s boss, a chain even higher up in the hierarchy, and they were both near the top. 

And _he_ ordered top-shelf wine, red, from the bartender. “Make that two,” he told him, already lighting his cigar, the gesture alone, ever so elegant, already setting him apart from the rest of the assembled people in the entirety of the bar. “I don’t usually do charity, Director,” he said to Krennic, barely sparing a glance at him, even if he was sitting next to him, “but you looked like you needed it.”

How he hated board meetings. In anyone else’s tongue, his title—the position that Krennic had obtained with blood and sweat, crawling up over the bodies of useful idiots and just plain everyday idiots—would have sounded powerful, signified power and prestige, but in Tarkin’s mouth, it sounded like an insult. Like a chide. 

“I’ve ordered my own drink already, Governor,” he said, swallowing his hatred now, not merely annoyance, tone laced with sarcasm and not bothering to hide it at all, “but _thank you_. You are certainly a _very_ charitable person.”

“Too proud to accept charity, aren’t you?” Tarkin continued, all ice cold arrogance (not even arrogance, Krennic thought, bitterly, this man knew his place in the pecking order and thinks he fully deserved it), tapping his fingers, eyes hawkishly observing him and his choice of liquor. “I _insist_ , Director. It’s on me.”

Krennic was sometimes uncomfortably reminded of a certain great aunt of his back at home in Tarkin’s presence. They surely shared the same barbed tongue, the same twisted sense of humour, and the same unparalleled ability to make Krennic felt like a boy again. The only marked difference is that his aunt used to smell like cheap perfume and cat piss, and Wilhuff Tarkin…was not.

He’d never admit it, but another marked, notable difference is that his aunt looked like what would happen if you cross a rancor and a sarlacc and gave it a floral-patterned dress, while the man sitting beside him…was rather good looking. In a severe sort of way. Perhaps after a couple of drinks, and accidentally hitting a live animal on one of those deserted highways back in his home country, far past the familiar port of midnight. 

Tarkin’s tie should have been crimson instead of the dark sheen of midnight blue, the colour of fresh blood. That would suit him much better. Krennic drowned the rest of his whiskey in one go atop this train of thought, suddenly feeling very, very ill. 

“I’m taking your silence as a yes,” his boss, the boss from hell (or worse) declared, and Krennic wrestled the urge to put his hands around his neck and watch the life leave his eyes, if he had any, because certainly life is for the living and he doubted, more often than not, that Tarkin was alive. “Charity is good for the soul, both for the giver and the receiver. And I’d figured it’s time for you to learn some _refinement_ , Director.”

“Not everyone,” he forced out, taking a long, stress-addled drag from his own cigarette, “had the luck to grow up as _privileged_ as you do, Governor.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, my dear Director Krennic. It’s all about _skill_ , not upbringing.” Krennic sensed, not entirely wrong, that he was talking about something else other than what they’re actually talking about, here, and as if right on cue, the bartender comes back with the Governor’s order, pouring it for both of them, another bottle in tow, suddenly playing the part of butler rather than bartender. Tarkin’s _personal_ butler, Krennic thought with the selfsame annoyance he felt ever since the other arrived and ruined his evening. He accepted his part sullenly, glaring at the older man. “Once more, you’re missing my point.”

“Once more, you’re missing _mine_.”

Tarkin smiled, slightly, a mildly terrifying affair. It was as if a hurricane grows teeth. The other man barely bared his. Krennic scowled. He lifted his glass for a toast, and Krennic scowled deeper. 

“Don’t be so _disagreeable_ , Director. The night is still young.” He says, lightly, sipping his wine, as if they were old friends in one of the galas his family hosted. Krennic felt rather quite disoriented, flooded with visions of grand ballrooms and wood-panelled floors and the finest of champagnes. He felt, in a rapid flash, out of place, and it makes him feel—above all—angry, because they were sitting here in a bar not far from their— _his_ —office, a bar he usually frequented, and there were no galas, no stuck-up upper class Coruscantis to cajole and praise and occasionally even seduced.

Wilhuff Tarkin was not one of them. They had established that a long time ago. Krennic hid his feelings—the feelings Tarkin had managed to conjure, as if he was a sorcerer and Krennic a hapless hero in the stories—with his cigarettes and a thin pretense of aloofness, of disinterest (as he always did), a mere shadow in face of Tarkin’s, but an effort nevertheless. He reached for his drink, but it was empty, and the other man, ever so slightly, placed the filled wine glass within his reach. His expression was inscrutable.

“And I still don’t know why the fuck you’re here,” came the eloquent reply from Krennic’s part, at last, after the plateau of silence. “Here, of all places, and tonight, out of all nights.”

Tarkin raised his cigar, looking deep in thought, his eyes pools of distant, fading stars. “Perhaps no reason at all.”

“Bullshit,” Krennic told him candidly, the consequence of it not even registering. The man was a predator, prowling the hallways like a monster tucked behind a perfectly tailored designer suit and a tie, and, since Krennic was cut from the same cloth (or at least, he fancied himself such), he knew the governor wouldn’t be here, if he’s not after something. 

“Perhaps we’ll find out,” Wilhuff Tarkin said, keeping the silence fenced in between them, once more sipping his wine. 

The longest night in Orson Krennic’s life had just begun.

* * *

Four drinks and two cigarettes later, Krennic discovered that it was indeed possible to hate someone more than what was humanly possible, not to mention that he found out more about Wilhuff Tarkin than he ever wanted to. The man was never particularly talkative, and in more than one occasion he implied, not-so-subtly, whether indirectly or directly, that he hated Krennic’s conversational skills and chosen topics (including tonight), but with good wine and a suitable atmosphere, apparently anything is possible. 

And with the right music, he also discovered, even more things are possible.

Krennic was feeling rather sulky and sullen when it happened, as one tends to feel when one was forced to spent a supposedly de-stressing evening with one’s boss, who always takes credit for every good bit of work one does. He was considering going somewhere else, anywhere else without a Tarkin in it (at this point he’d even go to a bar in the moon, if there are bars in the moon), but the familiar notes from a familiar song starts playing, and he felt himself perking up instinctively at the sound, as if a little bit of sunlight had just entered the room through the front door and asked him to dance.

Neither of them knows who said the words first.

“This was—“

“—a favourite song of mine.”

They stared at each other then, finally—but only this once—seeing the other, eyes meeting, wearing matching expression of disbelief. Krennic broke it first, imbibing more wine in a woefully wrong effort to make sure that he _wasn’t_ hearing things. 

Or _seeing_ things. Tarkin offered him one of his cigars, probably another effort of _charity_ as he called it, or rather a misguided attempt of being gentlemanly (which he _is_ , Krennic had to admit, very very _grudgingly_ ), and he refused it, out of spite. The look that crossed his eyes for a second or two was something very near but also very far from hurt, since Krennic knows what sort of man Wilhuff Tarkin is.

But perhaps it never hurts to test one’s theory. After all, it helps to have a solid foundation on which to build entire assumptions and grains of truths snatched from moments both stolen and given. And people, well, people are rather like buildings. They were all built on something.

In one quick—and simultaneously—longest instant, Orson Krennic dusted himself, puts down his drink, and said the magical words.

“Governor, perhaps it’s time to find out just how well you know this song.”

Tarkin leaned closer ever so slightly, still the dignified gentleman, ever aloof, but there was something akin to interest in his eyes. He slowly stubbed his cigar on the ashtray the bartender has somehow provided for him.

“Are you challenging me, Director? One might even suspect that _you_ are asking me to dance.”

Krennic glanced at him sideways, never one to throw caution to the wind. His mother once said—prophesied, more like—that one day his own recklessness would doom him. Tonight seemed to be the night when that maternal prophecy will come true.

“If you want to talk all night, Governor, be my guest. But that means I’ll win.”

To his surprise and astonishment, the other man slowly rose from his seat, something approaching playfulness in his eyes. Krennic wasn’t sure if it was entirely friendly, since he’s always on the receiving end of Tarkin’s snide remarks, not to mention that the man barely had a sense of humour. If he does, it was certainly strictly on the side of making Krennic—and it seems like it’s exclusively him since he treated everyone else with cordial disinterest—and his life in the office a living hell. Remembering this context, Krennic regarded him warily, although still keeping a ghost of a smirk, already regretting what he said.

“Well, then.” He said, as if they were standing in the grand ballroom of the grandest hotel in all of Coruscant and not a mildly packed bar on a Tuesday night, still wearing their office suits. “Shall we?”

Krennic stared at his outstretched hand, still encased in satin, and for a very brief moment his pride had a minor skirmish with his “what can go wrong” alcohol-induced haze. He wasn’t even that drunk yet, although he was quite sure that the governor must be really quite drunk to take him up on his offer. He always knew that Wilhuff Tarkin can’t hold his booze, after all.

“Of course,” he told him, taking that hand, rising from his seat with another smirk and a slight flourish. “The night is still young.”

To Krennic’s further surprise, the governor reached for his tie and fixed it, tying it in a flawless knot—only to pull him forward by it, giving him a tug.

“Come now, Director,” he beckoned, guiding Krennic by his tie, which infuriated him to no end. “The song is almost ending.”

Then, in that familiar old bar, on a Tuesday night, with perhaps a dozen eyes watching, the pollution-laden, starless, dark sky of Coruscant above it all, they danced, Krennic’s hands on the other man’s waist.

The long night turned out to be not that long after all.

* * *

In the aftermath, Krennic was back on his seat, legs propped up to the seat beside him. No one seemed to mind, since the bar was practically empty now. He, blissfully, as always, had no idea what time it was, and was having his umpteenth drink, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He still hasn’t loosened his tie after Tarkin had knotted it back into place.

“Are you that eager to give yourself alcohol poisoning?” A familiar voice disrupted him from his reverie, an all-too familiar voice that was the bane of his life and who haunted his nightmares, all sophistication and upper class grace, laced with the vaguest hint of distaste. Krennic spared him a lazy glance, expertly taking a drag in the meanwhile, letting the smoke flew to his face. The corners of Tarkin’s lips—always pursed in a thin, straight line, except for a moment or two or even three during their impromptu dancing session tonight—curled down ever so slightly, and Krennic can’t help but smiled, all but baring his teeth.

“Don’t blame me. After all, it’s on you, and you did say that charity is good for the soul, Governor Tarkin.”

The other man, in one smooth, graceful move, takes the cigarette from Krennic’s mouth, and snubbed it. Then—because Krennic knew he’s going to do it, and he had to beat him to it—taking the chance, Krennic cups his face and pulled him down to steal a kiss. It wasn’t the first that night—more like the second—and certainly not the first one that he started, either (also the second), but he still savoured the other’s palpable surprise. He let him go with a laugh.

“I would not want to lose an employee, Director,” the other replied, still as composed as ever, as if Krennic hadn’t just kissed him, as if they hadn’t danced and argued together (the latter is a necessity at this point) for the past hour or so, as if it wasn’t only just the two of them now in the bar. Krennic lights another cigarette, takes a sip from his drink. 

“A _valued_ one?” Krennic shot back, with an obvious chuckle. Tarkin seemed to take him in—propped up legs, messy suit, and all—with yet another one of his endless supply of inscrutable expressions (Krennic would swear that the man is an enigma), and, after a pregnant silence, deemed it worthy to answer.

“A capable one.”

That entirely took him by surprise, and he was very much still in a state of shock when Tarkin’s fingers found his tie, again, smoothing it, the ghost of a touch, fingertips fluttering against the fabric like butterflies and fragile things. Krennic’s mind refused to acknowledge both this moment and the emerging curiosity that comes with it, the flaming desire to know more, to touch more, and just like that, the other man pulled him in, much too gentle for the likes of him, landing a chaste kiss on his lips.

“But don’t get too cocky, Director. You still owe me the completion of your project.”

In juxtaposition with his words, which was laced with his typical firmness—and something more elusive, something that would perhaps be called _fondness_ with other people but not with Tarkin, never with Wilhuff Tarkin—the next kiss that he landed on Krennic’s cheek was soft. A gentleman’s kiss. He pulled away before Krennic could make heads or tails out of it, in more ways than one, both expression and countenance already returned to their natural state of aloofness, with the undertone of disdain, as if he can’t believe what he just did. What _they_ just did. 

As if it was something more than that. Krennic suppressed a smirk. 

“Goodnight, Director. I trust you will be able to find your way back home on your own.”

“Governor,” Krennic drawled, angling his head to better look at the other, who was meeting his gaze but not quite. “I am not a five year old. I’m able to drag my own ass home just fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“You are certainly a five year old more often than not,” he replied, and Krennic can’t help but notice the stiffness that had crept into both his voice and his countenance. “You certainly do throw a lot of temper tantrums.”

And just like that, they were back to what they always were, and Krennic resisted the urge to stub his cigarette in Tarkin’s arm. He did glare at him murderously, however.

“Goodnight, Governor,” he said, a little louder than intended, certainly felt so much louder in suddenly so empty a room, “I can assure you that I will not fail you where the project is concerned.”

“Good,” the governor said, fingertips briefly touching—and running on—Krennic’s propped  up leg, with perhaps the ghost of a smile, “then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And he left, the way he came—elegantly, unexpectedly. Managed to get on Krennic’s nerves, in all of its sophistication. He finished his cigarette, while the memory of the other’s fingertips on his leg, the deftness with which they knotted his tie, and most importantly, the taste of his lips on Krennic’s own, the flutter of it on his cheekbones was still in the back of his mind, a newly minted ghost on his first haunting. 

He tried not to laugh when it turns out that Wilhuff Tarkin had bequeathed him the fairly sizeable bill. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments and suggestions welcome. Thank you for reading! [hmu](http://advancedweaponry.co.vu) on Tumblr.


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